


an unexpected out-cum

by simplyclockwork



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: And it's John yelling at him, Coming In Pants, Demisexual Sherlock, First Time, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, POV John Watson, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Premature Ejaculation, Rough Sex, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson Being Idiots, Sherlock is a terrible flatmate, Surprise Sex, Unsafe Sex, Virgin Sherlock, Whoops sudden sex, aggressive sex, sherlock has a kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:55:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25598422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork
Summary: Sherlock Holmes doesn'tdo sex.Until he does.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 70
Kudos: 358





	an unexpected out-cum

**Author's Note:**

  * For [InkAtHeart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkAtHeart/gifts).



> Prompted by InkAtHeart:
> 
> _Everyone convinced Sherlock isn’t into sex, including Sherlock. Then John gets mad one day, shoves Sherlock against the wall, yells at and manhandles him. And then Sherlock comes in his pants. So he and John have aggressive, angry wall sex._
> 
>   
> This fic inspired some really fantastic, filthy smut by Gem_Gem and KittieHill, which you can read [here](https://www.archiveofourown.org/works/25702375)  
> 
> 
> Yes, that title is a pun.

The day starts like countless others. It’s John’s day off from the clinic, and he wakes to Sherlock hammering on his bedroom door, shouting, “Get up, John! We have a case!”

Listening to Sherlock’s too-fast footsteps receding down the stairs, John resists the urge to smother himself with the pillow. He cracks open bleary eyes and stares at the ceiling, wondering, not for the first time, why he allows such behaviour. 

As he sits up to pull on socks and pants, he knows why. Because without this wild, insane life, he would have little else. John owes Sherlock many things, and this life is one of them. Even if the mad bugger drives him up the wall on a reasonably regular basis, John still wouldn’t trade it for peace and quiet. 

Though, as his stomach growls, he does briefly consider trading it for a full English breakfast. 

Dressed, John makes his way downstairs, visions of greasy eggs, baked beans, and toast dancing in his head. However, barely one step into the kitchen, he is whisked away by a Belstaff-clad whirlwind that snaps, “No time for food, John. If you wanted to eat, you should have gotten up earlier.” 

“I _just_ woke up, no bloody thanks to you,” John grumbles, jerking his arm out of Sherlock’s grip. Sherlock shoots him a sharp look, and John finds himself with an armful of his own coat and boots, Sherlock already dashing out the door. 

“Hurry up, John!” he calls from the landing, already half-way down the stairs. John stares at the open door, and his stomach lets out a growl. He echoes the sentiment with a snarl of his own.

“I might actually kill him today,” he tells the doorframe. It doesn’t seem to have an opinion on the matter, and that does little to assuage John’s irritation. Casting one last, wistful glance at the kitchen, his dreams of a hearty breakfast evaporating in the wake of Sherlock’s feverish energy, John tugs on his boots. With his coat shoved over his shoulders, he clomps downstairs and out onto the sidewalk just in time to leap into a cab behind Sherlock’s coattails. 

“About time,” Sherlock sniffs, giving him a hard side-eyed glare. “Not like you to be so slow.”

John curls his hands into fists and sighs. “Shut it, you sod.”

Sherlock subsides with a grumpy huff.

# # #

By Sherlock’s irritated appraisal, the case is barely a five. Nevermind that he dragged John out of bed for it, the stroppy detective paces the scene with a dour expression. John watches with his arms folded over his chest, his stomach reminding him now and again that it is still woefully empty.

“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, narrowing his eyes as Sherlock bends over to pluck something from the victim’s shoulder. “Tell me something I don’t know.” He cocks his head, admiring the curve of Sherlock’s arse against the dark fabric of his almost alarmingly tight trousers. John redirects his view with a sigh. No point going down _that_ path again, not when his body is now reminding him that, in addition to no breakfast, he also has not had his usual morning wank. Or a shower. John grimaces, feeling grimy and neglected. 

Someone steps up next to him, and John glances over at a young officer. He’s unfamiliar, probably new to the team. He stands next to John and watches Sherlock with a curious expression.

“Please tell me you’ve tapped that,” he says, startling John out of his petulant reverie. 

“Excuse me?” 

The young officer turns and blinks at him, one eyebrow rising. “You’re flatmates, right? You and that detective guy?” He nods toward where Sherlock is kneeling with his arse in the air, his elbows in the dirt, magnifying glass inches from the dead woman’s slack face. 

John frowns. “Uh, yeah. We are.”

Gesturing at Sherlock’s rather distracting posterior, the officer shrugs. “Are you telling me you haven’t made a move? I mean, look at him.” He grins. “I don’t care if you’re straight, bi, gay or whatever, that’s a _fine_ arse.” 

John feels himself bristle. “Maybe you should shut it, yeah?” 

The officer casts him a surprised look. “I meant no offence. Just…” His eyes narrow, understanding flickering over his face. “Wait, so you and him...you’re not?” He waves a hand. “You haven’t, you know, ‘taken him to town?’” His voice lowers dramatically, and John scowls.

“Not that it’s _any of your business_ , but no.” He looks at Sherlock again. The detective rockets to his feet and stalks around the body like a vulture circling its future meal. “Sherlock...he doesn’t do that. With, you know. With anyone.” John shrugs. “It’s not his thing.”

“What, so, like,” the officer frowns, confused, “he’s asexual or something?” 

John shrugs again. “I don’t know. Maybe? I didn’t ask. It’s none of my business. But he’s married to his work, so, no. I have not ‘tapped that.’” His lip curls slightly at the term. “And I’d kindly like you never to ask me something like that again, Jesus fucking Christ.” 

The officer’s face turns red. Offering a sharp nod, he sidles away, leaving John to frown over both his empty stomach and Sherlock’s arse, which is, once again, in the goddamn air. 

# # # 

After Sherlock declares the case solved—“It was the sister, Lestrade, use your brain!”—he and John head for the main road to hail a cab. By now, John’s stomach is furious, its complaints bordering mutiny in the form of sudden nausea. Sherlock manages to flag down a cab seemingly from nowhere, and John’s knees nearly go weak with gratitude. Soon, they will be home, and John can eat. There is a leftover half a butty in the fridge, and his mouth fills with drool at the thought of it. It’s almost enough to coax his ignored morning erection back into play, but he subdues the urge by thinking about the dead body at the crime scene. 

It helps, and he settles into a more sociable mood. He even considers asking Sherlock to regale him with the details and deductions of the case, the rushed and irritated feeling of the morning beginning to fade as the cab trundles up to the curb.

But then Sherlock leaps into the cab, tells John to _get his own, I have to think_ , and leaves John standing on the sidewalk with his mouth agape. 

“I’m going to kill him,” John vows to no one and nothing as he crams his hands into the pockets of his jeans. 

# # #

After trying (and failing) to hail a cab of his own, John begins the trip back to Baker Street on foot. It’s not a dreadfully long distance, but long enough that he loses himself in his thoughts on the way. With every step, his annoyance grows, blossoming into deep-seated anger that tastes bitter in his mouth. 

John reminds himself that this is par for the course with Sherlock, and he really shouldn’t be surprised at this point. The thought is not nearly as comforting as he’d hoped it would be.

By the time he arrives on Baker Street, it is nearing noon. The sun is high in the sky and painting sweat down his nape and back through the warm layer of his coat. John’s stomach snarls audibly at the sight of home, refusing to settle when John pats his hand over his empty belly.

Stepping through the door and climbing the stairs, the smell of something acrid, burning and harsh assaults John’s sinuses. He grabs at the railing, clapping a hand over his mouth to keep from retching. With no interest in heaving stomach acid and bile onto the staircase, John breathes into his palm as he ascends to the second floor. 

When he pushes into the flat, his first plan of attack is the windows. He strides through a grey haze to the far side of the sitting room, throwing them open and letting in fresh air. Nose shoved against the cracked window, John inhales several desperate gasps of untainted oxygen, steeling himself to return to whatever noxious environment has filled the flat. 

Back inside the sitting room, the cloudy air clearing out through the windows, he stalks into the kitchen to find the source. It is, of course, Sherlock. 

“Oh, John,” he says, looking up from whatever he is burning on the stove. “You’re back.”

“Yes, I am,” John hisses, waving his arms to clear the smoke before flicking the fan on over the stove. “What the _hell_ are you doing?”

Sherlock looks bemused, glancing from John to the black substance turning to ash in the frying pan set on the element. “Experiment.”

“Is that experiment how long you can burn something in a pan? Because I’d say you’ve been successful,” John bites out, flipping the element off despite Sherlock’s protests. “Jesus, Sherlock, are you _trying_ to give yourself lung cancer?” 

“I was testing the burn rate of certain meats, both raw and cooked.” Sherlock’s protests follow John to the fridge. Rolling the stiffness from his shoulders, John pulls it open with a sigh.

“Lovely,” he mutters sardonically. His eyes search the interior of the fridge, grimacing at a jar of eyes that glare back at him. He moves the milk, the eggs, and frowns. “Where is it?” 

Sherlock looks up from poking a spatula petulantly at the black mess in the frying pan. “Where’s what?”

“My butty.” John leans back to narrow his eyes at the still smoking pan. “Where is it?”

Sherlock doesn’t respond. Instead, he sets the dish in the sink and slinks away into the sitting room. 

John thinks he might scream. He bites his tongue and squints at the jar of eyeballs. “I’m going to kill him for real now, I think.” The eyeballs don’t protest, and John takes that as a silent blessing. “Thanks,” he says to them, slamming the fridge shut. He tries to inhale a calming breath, but it only serves to fill his lungs with lingering smoke, and he coughs his way into a snarl. The anger from earlier wakes and makes its home in John’s chest. It sends him stomping toward the sitting room. “Sherlock.”

Standing by the window, Sherlock tilts his head but doesn’t turn. “Yes, John?”

His feet planted on the red carpet, John squints at the tense lines of Sherlock’s back. “Did you eat it?” he asks. Sherlock twitches.

“Eat it?” he repeats, voice too nonchalant for John to trust. “No, John, I didn’t eat your leftovers.” He sounds annoyed, like such an accusation is ridiculous, but John hears an undercurrent beneath the words. He advances further into the room, fingers twitching. 

“Sherlock.” John cocks his head to the side to make his neck crack. “Don’t play with me. I’ve had a rather frustrating day so far, and I am not in the best of moods.” Fixing a sharp, unamused smile on his face, John blinks quickly. “What did you do?”

“It was for science,” Sherlock begins, turning around finally. He catches sight of John’s face, pales, and tries again. “I needed cooked meat, as well as raw, and—”

“Oh my god, you fucking _burnt_ it, didn’t you,” John breathes, scowling as Sherlock sidles toward the wall. “You utter wanker, you know you’re not supposed to use my food for experiments.”

“Now, John,” Sherlock starts, falling silent when John stalks toward him.

“No, Sherlock. No, you listen to me.” John advances, jabbing his finger into Sherlock’s chest. “Today has been a _day_ , and that’s your damn fault. First, you drag me out of bed and deny me breakfast. Then, you make me go to a crime scene that’s barely worth your time, hardly a 5, you said. There, some uppity new officer asks me weirdly personal questions about your arse—”

“John, I can hardly control what other people say to—hold on, did you say my arse?”

“Shut up,” John grits out, holding up a hand. “I’m not done talking.” He steps closer, backing Sherlock up against a wall. “And, if that wasn’t bad enough, you _ditched_ me, and I had to walk back here on an empty stomach. And then!” John is winding up now, his voice rising with his frustration. One of his hands lands on Sherlock’s shoulder, pushing him into the wall without conscious thought as John continues, “And then, you had the _audacity_ to use _my_ leftovers in some inane, ridiculous _experiment_ that, apparently, means turning the bacon in my butty into charcoal dust.” His fingers tighten, the other hand coming up to curl in Sherlock’s shirt, fingertips kneading into his chest. John can feel Sherlock’s pulse there, wild and too fast, but he’s tired of Sherlock treating him like this, and it’s time he stood up for himself. 

Sherlock’s mouth opens, but nothing emerges. For once, the detective is struck silent, gaping like a fish. The sight only serves to crank John’s anger up another notch.

“Well?” He leans in until they are face-to-face, his nose almost brushing the tip of Sherlock’s. “What do you have to say for yourself, Sherlock?”

“I—John, I—” Sherlock babbles, eyes wide and round and surprised. It only makes John more furious, and he narrows his eyes, gripping Sherlock hard by both shoulders now. 

“You can’t keep treating me like...like whatever you treat me as!” he snaps, shaking Sherlock slightly. Not enough to hurt him, but enough to get his point through. “The Earth revolves around the sun, not around your _giant head_ , and you need to stop being such a prat!”

Sherlock’s lips part, his tongue darting out to wet them. His face is red and flushed, sweat beginning to bead on his temples, giving his curls a shiny look. At this point, he and John are pressed together, chest-to-chest, John’s fingers digging into Sherlock’s arms. Sherlock looks dazed, his pupils huge in his round eyes, and John wonders if he has disappeared into his Mind Palace.

“Dammit, Sherlock,” he growls, glaring up at him. “Are you even fucking listening to me?”

To his shock, instead of responding with words, instead of agreeing or arguing or going off on some Sherlockian tangent, Sherlock’s mouth opens, his hands find and grip John’s forearms, and he groans. 

No, not groans. Sherlock _moans_ , his face flushing brilliant crimson as a shiver works through his frame. It seems to originate from his core and spread from there like ripples over clear water, his body twitching with something like violence against John’s.

When it stops, they stare wide-eyed at one another with John shocked into silence. The longer John gawks, at a loss for words, the darker Sherlock’s face turns, embarrassment and horror rising in his eyes. 

“What,” John begins slowly, Sherlock still pressed between him and the wall, “the fuck was that.”

“I…” Sherlock clears his throat, his voice slow and halting. “I believe I may have had...an incident.” 

“What?”

Sherlock avoids his eyes, his skin hot enough to radiate heat. Still, John hasn’t moved back, held in place by his confusion and shock. Sherlock coughs delicately.

“I had an orgasm.” 

John’s head jerks upward. “What?” Sherlock scowls, clearly uncomfortable. 

“Stop saying _what_ , John. You’re a doctor. Surely, you know what is meant by having an orgasm!”

“Yeah, but…” John shakes his head, finally releasing Sherlock’s arms to step back slightly, glancing downward. There is a distinctive wet spot on the front of Sherlock’s trousers. “You have those?

Sherlock sniffs. “Of course I have orgasms, John, I’m not a robot.”

“You sure about that?” John mutters under his breath. When he looks up again, Sherlock is glaring at him, and John shakes his head. “I didn’t mean it like that. Just—you know, how you’re always going on about transport, bodily needs being beneath you...oh, sod off with that look, this doesn’t make me less angry with you.” He pauses, suddenly suspicious. “Wait—you didn’t make yourself climax just to get out of an argument, did you?”

His expression shifting toward affronted, Sherlock scowls. “No, John, I did not ejaculate in my trousers to get you to shut up. If I had, it’s clear that it would have been a failed technique, seeing as you are _still_ talking.”

The words set John off again. Sherlock cumming in his trousers or no, John steps forward again and prods at Sherlock’s chest with a growl. “You sod, weren’t you listening to what I just said?” To his continued shock, Sherlock’s eyelids flutter, and he voices a low, needy noise. John throws his hands up. “What the hell was that!” 

Sherlock frowns. “I appear to be reacting to your anger and proximity.” The frown deepens, a pensive expression passing over his face. “This is...new.”

“I’ll fucking say,” John mutters, squinting up at him. “Are you saying that this,” he gestures between them to indicate their positions, “is _doing something_ for you?”

“If you’re asking if I am sexually aroused by you shouting in my face while backing me against the wall, then, taking into account the relevant data and assumptions, and calculating for variations in the—”

John rolls his eyes. “In _English_ , Sherlock.”

His lower lip pushing out in a pout, Sherlock huffs. “If you want to be pedestrian about it, then, yes.” 

“I thought you didn’t ‘do sex,’” John says, frowning. Sherlock blinks slowly.

“As did I.” His brow creases. “I wasn’t lying when I said I was married to my work.” 

“Alright.” John steps back, rereleasing Sherlock. “This is...unexpected. I didn’t mean to make you...you know.” He gestures to Sherlock’s lower body. Sherlock doesn’t answer, just watches John’s face closely. He’s silent for so long that John begins to shift uncomfortably. “What?”

“You should have labelled your leftovers,” he says. John blinks.

“What?”

“I said, you should have labelled your leftovers. It’s your fault they were ruined in my experiment.” Sherlock picks up speed, waving his hands in the air for emphasis. “Also, who eats a butty anyways? Do you wish to die of a heart attack before you’re even 50?” 

John’s mouth falls open. “Sherlock—are you _trying_ to make me angry?” he asks, dumbfounded. Sherlock fixes him with a knowing look.

“Is it working?”

Jaw closing with a click of teeth, John scowls. “No.” Sherlock’s face falls, and, his hypothesis confirmed, John smirks, adding, “Because I’m _still_ angry.” 

Sherlock’s eyes widen before a slow, sharp smile curls his lips. “Oh, good, you’re not as slow as I feared.” 

“You fucking wanker,” John snaps, stepping back into Sherlock’s body. He pins him to the wall with a hand on his chest, the other anchored on Sherlock’s slender waist. “If you wanted me, you could have just asked.”

“Wasn’t sure your grasp on the English language was advanced enough for that,” Sherlock quips. John retaliates by ripping the buttons off his shirt. Writhing at the feeling of John’s hands on his bare skin, Sherlock gasps out, “It’s a good thing you walked home today, you’ve gained seven pounds. I did you a favour, burning your leftovers.”

“Shut up, prick,” John growls against Sherlock’s neck, flicking a nipple with his thumb and making Sherlock squirm. “And it’s _five_ pounds, thanks very much.”

Sherlock huffs out a breathy sigh as John grips his hip and grinds into him with the erection John neglected that morning. “No,” Sherlock says unsteadily, hips wiggling in response to the contact, “it’s definitely seven.” 

“I’ll show you something that’s a definite seven,” John snarls, words muffled by his head facing toward the floor, his hands working at Sherlock’s trousers. When he gets them open, it is clear that Sherlock wasn’t lying about the outcome of his excitement. Peeling the placket back and shoving both trousers and pants down to Sherlock’s ankles, John pushes him harder against the wall. “Have you ever done anything? Like, at all?”

Sherlock huffs. “Just because I don’t have sex, doesn’t mean I haven’t touched myself.” 

One eyebrow cocked, John looks up at him. “Thought you were Mister Married-to-His-Work?”

Another huff. “I never said I was faithful.”

John barks a laugh, startled through his humming anger. “Well, fuck, could have told me that at Angelo’s, that first night.”

“Maybe I wasn’t interested, “Sherlock snaps, piqued. 

“Well, you’re certainly interested now, aren’t you.” John strokes his palms over Sherlock’s half-hard cock. He glances up again, smirking. “Not sure I’m in the mood, though, to be honest.”

Sherlock’s expression darkens. “Your wardrobe is atrocious. You’re a sorry excuse for a doctor.” He squints as if thinking before a sharp, shit-eating grin spreads over his face. “The last time I interrupted one of your boring dates with another boring woman, I did it for my own amusement. I didn’t actually need your help with that case.” 

His eyes flashing with anger, John tugs off his shirt and jumper and digs into his back pocket for his wallet. “Oh, now you’re gonna get it,” he snaps, fumbling it open to retrieve the lube packet stashed inside. He tosses it on the table and works his jeans off, letting them fall and stepping out of them without losing his grip on Sherlock. “You little shit, I can’t believe you.” The anger surges back again, heady and unspent, and John bares his teeth. “Lift your leg.” Sherlock complies as John rips the lube packet open with his teeth and squeezes some over his fingers. 

“It’s unlikely you would have had sex with her anyway,” Sherlock says, oblivious to the heat burning under John’s skin, the anger fuelling John’s aching, hard cock. He lets John hook Sherlock’s knee around his waist, still babbling, “She wasn’t really into you, she prefers tall, exciting men, not washed out, old—ah!” His words cut off when John works a finger inside him, the insertion insistent and startling. “Oh,” he sighs wonderingly, eyes going wide. “I—that’s… _ohhhhhhh._ ”

John twists his finger, his smirk sharp with building aggression. “You just don’t know when to stop, do you?” He slips a second in with the first, making Sherlock tremble and gasp, his body clenching. Sherlock’s hands find John’s shoulders, gripping and pressing, and John winces when pain twinges in his scar. “Fuck, Sherlock, ow!” 

“Wimp,” Sherlock hisses, paling slightly when John’s eyes flash with anger. 

“Bastard,” John shoots back, curling his fingers until Sherlock jerks with pleasure, the movement stimulating his prostate. 

John’s third finger encounters resistance, and John works it in slowly, stretching Sherlock with his first two fingers until the third slips in with only minor struggle. By now, Sherlock is panting, groaning in John’s ear, his balance precarious with his trousers and pants trapped around his ankles. 

“Are you going to fuck me or not?” Sherlock looks like he regrets the words as soon as they emerge from his mouth, John snarling at him in response. 

“Fucking fuck _you.”_ John tugs at his pants, kicking them off to join his jeans before snatching the lube off the table, his fingers slipping free of Sherlock’s body with a soft, wet noise. He squeezes lube over his hard shaft, spreading it from root to tip with slow fingers. Grabbing Sherlock by the jaw, John yanks his head down and kisses him hard, his other hand hauling Sherlock’s leg higher on his waist. 

He presses into Sherlock with a furious groan, sliding past resistance as Sherlock gasps against his lips, his fingers clenching against John’s shoulders. John doesn’t stop until he’s fully seated, pushing past Sherlock’s winces and angry muttering. 

“You call this fucking?” he grumbles, biting at John’s lips. “I bet anyone could—ah, shit!” 

John pulls back and slams forward, driving Sherlock’s back against the wall. Sherlock keens in response, his eyes widening. He’s fully hard now, cock bouncing against his stomach as John hammers into him again, picking up a brutal rhythm without bothering to work up to it. Sherlock’s angry words devolve into needy whines and whimpers of pleasure, his eyelids falling to half-mast over his dark eyes. 

“Is that—is that—” Sherlock attempts, losing his words as he gasps for breath. “Is that all—all you can…oh, _god, John.”_ The blaspheme emerges when John grips Sherlock’s thighs, skids him down the wall and deepens the angles of his thrusts. With every push, he makes Sherlock’s toes curl, his mouth gape, words lost to the soundless way he clutches at John for dear life. 

“‘Bout fucking time you shut that mouth,” John snaps through gritted teeth. “Next time, I might just shove my cock in there to shut you up.” 

Sherlock’s eyes roll back in response, and he comes violently with a shout, spattering John’s chest and stomach with his cum. He looks dazed, head lolling against the wall as John fucks him through the aftershocks. 

His fingers tightening on Sherlock’s thighs, John spreads his legs and thrusts harder, picking up the pace. Sweat stands out on his forehead, runs down his temples to his neck, his abdominal muscles, shoulders, and biceps flexing with the strength required to keep Sherlock’s limp, slack form upright. Sherlock doesn’t help, just drapes his arms and chin over John’s shoulders, sighing and moaning with each thrust. 

When John finally comes, it’s with a grunt, a growled curse, and a lot of cum. He feels Sherlock clench around him, shivering with the feeling of being filled with John’s release, his nails scrabbling against John’s bare, sweaty skin. Once the tremours of John’s climax recede, John’s softened cock slips out of Sherlock’s body before he dumps Sherlock onto the floor. 

“Bastard,” he says, glaring down at him. Sherlock dares to smirk, looking sated, well-fucked, and very, very smug. 

“I bet you can’t do that again,” he challenges, making John growl.

“You utter wanker.” John looks up at the skull on the mantelpiece, seeking a sympathetic ear. “If I kill him, will you help me hide the body?”

The skull doesn’t reply, and Sherlock reaches out to tug John down to the floor with him.

**Author's Note:**

> If your comment is just that John seems small/soft/whatever or that Sherlock is much darker/sexier/whatever, please move long. Also, for the love of my sanity, do not leave comments about John's cock being too small/Sherlock's being bigger, because I literally _do not care_ about John Watson's fictional penis.


End file.
